


Bless Us, One and All

by Quilly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Fluff and Humor, Gabriel CW, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Mr. Fell was most astonished one night to find himself visited by three spirits.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	Bless Us, One and All

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired of looking at this so now I'm gonna post it, hooray!
> 
> Listen. I tried to read the book first. I got to partway through the third chapter. And then I lost all spoons and patience. So this is one inkling truthful to some bits of the book, and the rest is filled in with the Muppet Christmas Carol and Mickey's Christmas Carol and so on and so forth (quick question, though, why is the Mickey's Christmas Carol the version where Scrooge gets dragged to hell?). I would be sorry about it but I think this is how Crowley would have wanted it. 
> 
> Also, I know that A Christmas Carol and the first holy water argument take place about 20 years apart but...well. You'll see. It'll make sense.

Marley was dead, though this has very little bearing whatsoever on the story about to unfold. This is not the tale of a miserable, miserly skinflint who terrorizes his employees and disparages the less fortunate. This is more a tale of mistakes and introspection, of two extraordinary beings with soft hearts recently broken by a bad falling-out, and the vision required for one of them, at least, to pull his fluffy head out of his—well. You get the picture.

Mr. A. Z. Fell was a generous soul, so long as you weren’t a customer after his wares. His eyes twinkled and his smile was wide, and his palm was as open as his laugh. He was known in London as either the kindest man in the world, or else the oddest, and it was a fanciful twist of the brush which painted him that allowed him to embody both. Mr. Fell, once upon a time, had often been seen with a tall, dark figure who cut a dashing silhouette, or so Mr. Fell had thought, but such times were long past, with an argument in a park and a slip of paper that had long since vanished in the fire of temper, it was unclear whose. It had been close to two years since that time, and Mr. Fell was sure the entire affair was quite forgotten, quite forgotten indeed, though the absence of the dark dashing figure remained conspicuous to the one who knew it best. It was the end of the year, London was cold, and Mr. Fell was busy, passing out blankets perhaps a bit thicker than they appeared and blessing meager dinners to bear just a smidge more meat than expected. Now, his stores of seasonal spirit exhausted, he sat in his bookshop, drawn and pale and nodding off into his cup of mulled wine as he wore his dressing-gown over his clothes in some parody of comfort.

Perhaps the wine was to blame, perhaps Mr. Fell’s fatigue played a role, but whatever the reason, it nevertheless aided the consternation Mr. Fell felt when his rare doze was interrupted by a bright light.

Mr. Fell’s usual instinct, when confronted with a light brighter and purer than any lantern, was to begin stammering apologies and obeisance and making idle comments about how he wasn’t sure his quarter-century review was due just yet, but as he startled awake in his chair, dropping his glass of wine entirely, he came to realize that the bright light was not of the usual source, but instead seemed to belong to three muddled people standing uninvited in his back room, looking down at him with obvious surprise.

“Oh,” Mr. Fell said, blinking up at his visitors. “Oh, hello. Can I help you?”

“Is this the residence of one Ebenezer Scrooge?” the first spirit, that of a floating personage not unlike a humanized candle, complete with a little cap shaped like a snuffer, asked in a high childlike voice.

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Fell said. “This is a bookshop. I don’t know the gentleman of whom you speak.”

“Bugger that for luck,” the candle spirit cursed to their companions, a jolly-looking man with a lustrous auburn beard, and a silent specter in a black robe that gave Mr. Fell an awful chill to look upon, though not quite so awful as the chill he would feel were it the actual creature whom the specter was imitating. Death, in general, has better to do than consort with earthbound earthmade spirits, after all.

“I think Mr. Marley gave us the wrong address,” the jolly bearded spirit sighed, twirling an ivy leaf wound in his hair.

 _Perhaps his chains have rattled loose_ , said the specter, though it was said in less a voice and more an impression of sensations and imagery that Mr. Fell was adept at translating, it being close to his native tongue.

“We’ll have to make them tighter, then, won’t we,” the candle spirit said, the vitriol at odds with their high voice. Mr. Fell supposed he should laugh about it but thought it might offend them. “Terribly sorry about this, old chap. You’re sure you’re not him?”

“Not remotely, no,” Mr. Fell shook his head.

“Well.” The candle spirit smoothed down their ethereal smock and sighed. “It’s still Christmas Eve, is it?”

“It is,” Mr. Fell nodded. He was beginning to feel the itch he often did when too many curious customers were poking about in his shop with the intent to part him from his stock, that is: the itch to remove the problem from the premises and immerse himself in a beloved tome until he forgot that an outside world existed at all. “Well, since this isn’t the right residence—”

“Actually,” the bearded spirit said, “would you mind terribly if we practiced our speeches on you, old boy?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Fell blinked.

“It’s just, we’ve only gotten to rehearse with each other,” the bearded spirit said. The silent dark specter gave a single solemn nod.

“Go on, sir, just until we find the right house,” the candle spirit pleaded. “Let us give it a bit of a dry run. Would make us feel less foolish about the trickery of that slippery blighter Marley.”

 _And it would be more poetic,_ the silent dark specter seemed to emanate, _to appear at the hours of one, two, and three, rather than ten, eleven, and twelve. Perhaps Marley has done us a kindness in this setback._

“Oh…oh, very well,” Mr. Fell said, not cheered by the thought of entertaining unexpected guests for several hours but too polite to turn them out. They were spirits, after all, and it wasn’t often that Mr. Fell found himself visited by earthly spirits. It could be educational. Certainly something to tell Crow—well. Something to remember fondly, at any rate.

“Right. I’m first, then,” the candle spirit said, and floated closer to Mr. Fell. They cleared their throat, then fixed a gentle smile upon their cherubic face. “Hello, Ebenezer. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“How do you do,” Mr. Fell said, politely.

“Let us fly, and see what your past may tell us.”

“Fly? Well. Certainly,” Mr. Fell said.

“Fear not. A touch of my hand, and—oh,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said. “I suppose…well. This is just a rehearsal, after all, don’t need to get all that fancy with it. Minor illusion for the effect, and all.”

“Of course,” Mr. Fell said, and tucked his wings away from where they had been about to emerge from the ether, a touch disappointed.

The Ghost of Christmas Past showed him a small town in pastoral England somewhere, and a troubled upbringing of a miserable soul, and they droned on and on about the virtues of a hard life as characters of that life danced by. Mr. Fell bore it patiently until he could no longer, and made a tiny cough.

“Yes? You have a question?” the Ghost of Christmas Past sang.

“Yes,” Mr. Fell said. “Do forgive me, but…do you usually talk this much, when confronting people in bad spirits like this Mr. Scrooge?”

“How else will they know how very wicked they’ve been?” the Ghost of Christmas Past asked.

“It’s just,” Mr. Fell said, “it seems to me that if you’re dealing with someone who doesn’t care a whit for the season or for kindness to others, showing them and reminding them how miserable they were would only serve as justification for their actions. And if it didn’t,” Mr. Fell continued with thoughts of a rakish grin and rolling ochre eyes on his mind, “then harping on about how bad they are certainly would.”

“Done this a lot, have you?” the Ghost of Christmas Past scowled.

“Well. Not to brag, but I’ve…done it a bit,” Mr. Fell said, straightening his waistcoat.

“Ooh, la, we’ve got an expert on our hands,” the Ghost of Christmas Past sneered. “We’re experts too, I’ll have you know! Take a look at this!”

There was a rush of real power, which threatened Mr. Fell for a moment into mantling his wings in the ether again, and a blast of hot air to his face. Mr. Fell blinked, and in that blink, found himself standing on a wall that hadn’t been seen in several thousand years.

“Oh,” Mr. Fell said, standing in his dressing-gown and slippers and waistcoat next to his own image in white robes and wings. He looked younger, somehow, though Mr. Fell knew quite well that his corporation hadn’t changed much at all since this distant time. “Well. Not exactly a Christmas Past, is it?”

“You transcend Christmases, Aziraphale,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said in their more ethereal, professional voice. “What do you see?”

“Myself, obviously,” Aziraphale said, deciding not to mention the inherent rudeness of using one’s personal name when it had not been given. “On guard duty, as I was made to be.” And he was, for there in his hand was the flaming sword, his tool of protection in his duty. Aziraphale cringed a bit at the sight of it, at the memory of what had become of it.

A thousand smells rose to Aziraphale’s nose, carrying with them a thousand sensations and memories, each one dear. The heady aromas of flowers and fruits, of fresh water and rich earth, and the certain whiff of divinely-touched steel that Aziraphale had never smelled before or since—these were the trappings of the Garden of Eden, and Aziraphale looked on them with some degree of nostalgic contentment. He could have walked this wall with all of his eyes closed and never wavered in his path.

“Something changed in you, up here,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said, and the first few days of the Garden passed before Aziraphale’s eyes—himself standing at his post, with increasingly wandering eyes, and then disappearing into the Garden itself and returning sword-less. “Your first disobedience.”

“Not a disobedience,” Aziraphale objected, his throat tight and heart fretful. “Merely…a kindness.”

“On this, you are correct,” the Ghost of Christmas Past nodded. “Look, hark who comes now!”

Aziraphale’s mutinous corporation made several painful reactions as the long, thick, serpentine form of one he knew so well and held so dear slithered up on the wall next to this younger, fresher version of himself, then resolved itself into a human-shaped corporation. Aziraphale’s breath stuttered at the handsome black wings, at the crimson ringlets, at the flashes of white teeth and brassy eye.

“Do you know him?” the Ghost of Christmas Past asked.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said, before he could check himself.

“Crawly,” the young demon on the wall introduced himself to the inexperienced angel, and Aziraphale put his hand over his heart to stop it running away with him.

“This is not your last meeting with the demon Crawly,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said, and the scene began to melt and change, but not before Aziraphale was treated to the remembrance of how he held his wing over Crawly’s head when it began to rain. Had it really been timed so well as to happen at the same moment that Adam and Eve, far away in the lone and dreary sands, reached for each other’s hands? Had the brief hop-step of Crawly towards Aziraphale been so coincidental as to occur in the moment when Adam drew Eve closer to him, to protect and cherish her? Aziraphale’s throat constricted even as the stone beneath his feet morphed into marble and the pleasant smells of the Garden turned into different, mouthwatering smells of human cooking.

“Know you this place, Aziraphale?” the Ghost of Christmas Past asked, and in Aziraphale’s opinion, that was just cheeky.

“Know it?” Aziraphale smiled, looking around himself at the busy patrons, at the serving girls with their jugs of wine, at the togas and the sandals and the platters of oysters. “I spent many a pleasant afternoon here, once.”

“Perhaps one more than others,” the Ghost of Christmas Past hinted, and there, at a familiar table, sat Aziraphale and Crowley, the former on a tangent, no doubt, and the latter listening intently with a soft smile on his face Aziraphale was quite sure he’d never noticed before in the moment. Aziraphale remembered this afternoon very well, very well, indeed. This was the first time he and Crowley had had lunch together. Oh, certainly there had been drinks, before, but a meal…that had always seemed so forward, before. But sitting in Petronius’ restaurant, tipping oysters into his gullet, smiling at Crowley’s scrunched-up nose and hiding away passing idle thoughts about how well Roman fashions suited him even if he did stand out…

“I remember,” Aziraphale said, almost too overcome to speak. He could not stop staring at the look on Crowley’s face that overcame him every time Aziraphale in the past stopped looking at him—it was soft, and achingly tender, even fond, and it stole Aziraphale’s breath away. Not just for how very handsome Crowley was, this was common knowledge, but for how desperately Aziraphale found that he missed him. It had been a great long while since he had seen Crowley at ease. Certainly their last meeting hadn’t been this relaxed.

“Blooming friendships in unlikely places,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said gently, and the scene began to change again. “Barely even friends, then somebody bends, unexpectedly…”

“Laying it on a little thick, are we?” Aziraphale mumbled, because the scent of pine had filled his nose and he knew this forest, knew the stars overhead and the chill in the air. He knew the two figures in the clearing, as well, clinking fine goblets together and sealing a deal it had taken half a millennium to talk Aziraphale into.

“You know what’s a bit thick?” the Ghost of Christmas Past snipped, and gestured with their flame-like head. As Aziraphale watched, Crowley said something he could neither hear nor remember, but Aziraphale in the past certainly could, and choked on his wine, spraying it in a fine mist as he laughed. Aziraphale in the present felt his heart give another dull ache. When was the last time Crowley had made him laugh, or the other way around? “You two. You two are a bit thick.”

“Reckless, perhaps,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting with his waistcoat beneath his dressing gown. “What is this meant to accomplish, spirit? Besides giving me a highlight reel of things Heaven would be cross with me about?”

“You tell me,” the Ghost of Christmas Past rolled their eyes, “since you think I talk too much.”

In the clearing, Aziraphale and Crowley sat on the ground, passing an ever-filling wine bottle back and forth, talking of nothing and swapping stories of errant misdeeds and triumphs. They still seemed younger to Aziraphale, or at least less knowledgeable of what was to come. Crowley hadn’t yet seen the horrors of the fourteenth century, nor Aziraphale the ghastliness of the crusades that would begin very soon after this meeting, nor either of them the sublime grandstanding of orchestral performances composed by geniuses and the delicacy of French patisserie and the nuanced flavors of sushi. Yet they were still old friends, these two, liable to witness the highs and lows of humanity and commiserate as the only two in the universe who could possibly understand one another. How had it all turned so sour? And why? Why would Crowley ask for the one thing that could put a permanent end to nights such as this, dominated by good wine and good conversation?

“Enough,” Aziraphale said. “Enough torments of the past.”

“Torments?” the Ghost of Christmas Past said, then quirked a wavering eyebrow. “Oh, I see. Your guilt is gnawing at you.”

“Guilt! The very idea!” Aziraphale huffed, and in a breath he was returned to his own bookshop, the other two spirits still in line.

“Guilt,” the Ghost of Christmas Past nodded. “These memories are of your own making, Principality Aziraphale, not mine. I’m just showing you what already came to pass. The conclusions you draw are your own.” Aziraphale glared at them, possibly with rather more eyes than normal, and the spirit relented. “Anyway, I’m done. I think I made my point.”

“I would say I was just subjected to aggravated _not_ making the point,” Aziraphale said. The Ghost of Christmas Past stuck out their tongue and vanished like a doused candle.

“My turn, then,” the bearded spirit said, and in a blink swelled large. Aziraphale’s back room suddenly overflowed with food and drink, and even the silent specter had a wreath on its head and a teacup in its hands. The bearded spirit gave a booming laugh.

“Hello!” he said, beaming. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Come through, and know me better, man!”

“Inaccurate in many respects,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Just sticking to my script!” the Ghost of Christmas Present beamed. “Have some of the—”

“Is that—lamb?” Aziraphale blinked. The aroma of the meat brought him instantly back to Jerusalem, and the more he looked around, the more he saw more dishes not from the current time and season, but from many of his favorite places around the world and throughout history, bread of every kind and cocktails once made in a tavern in a city on the Jordan plain and bowls of delicious dates and honeyed dormice and even delicious cuts of sashimi on platters. “Bit sacrilegious, isn’t it, being the Ghost of Christmas Present and offering dishes not remotely Christian?”

“These are the fruits of the labors of kindness, Aziraphale,” the Ghost of Christmas Present boomed. “You have seen much good in many times and places, and it bears different rewards. Kindness and love are the real sustenance of my soul, not Christmas and Christendom itself.”

“Seems like you’re presenting yourself under a misnomer, then,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“The target audience celebrates Christmas, so that’s what we’re going with!” the Ghost of Christmas Present smiled. “You are missing the point, at any rate! Does this feast of love please you, Principality?”

“Please me?” Aziraphale said, looking around himself. “It does, at that. Looks positively scrummy.”

“Would you like to see more?” the Ghost of Christmas Present asked.

“I suppose I would,” Aziraphale nodded.

“There’s a jolly good fellow!” the Ghost of Christmas Present laughed, and in a blink Aziraphale found himself and the spirit standing outside of a tiny house he knew well—a clerk lived here, with his wife and children. Aziraphale had given the clerk a small goose to roast for the season, and thrown in a small bag of chestnuts. It was as much as he had dared, with the mantra of “frivolous miracles” still ringing in his ears. Within the small dwelling, Aziraphale saw as he peeked in the window, the family were enjoying each other’s company and smiling at the antics of the smallest boy, who walked with a crutch and had a weakness of the lungs it pained Aziraphale to see in one so young.

“Whatever are we doing here, spirit?” Aziraphale asked.

“This is one family of many you’ve helped, Aziraphale,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said, “but they’ve another benefactor, as well.”

“Do they?” Aziraphale frowned, and turned back to the family, the father of which was now standing with his small cup in hand.

“A toast!” the father declared. “To the founder of the feast, of course, our generous employer—”

“Bah! Humbug!” one of the children cried, and was shushed.

“—and to good Mr. Fell, for the main course,” the father smiled, “and of course, to our generous landlord, who waived the mortgage payment for the month and lowered the interest rate for the season. A toast to Mr. Crowley!”

“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale cried as the family echoed the sentiment. “I had no idea—he never told me he owned property!”

“He owns many a house like this one throughout London,” the Ghost of Christmas Present nodded. “Shall we see another?”

“Please,” Aziraphale nodded, his head spinning. Crowley, owning property and being praised as generous? It was unthinkable. What Hell would do when they found out—

Aziraphale blinked and they stood before an orphanage, a very shabby orphanage indeed, though it had some measure of cheer in the form of evergreen boughs under the bottom windows and a wreath on the door. Within the grimy windows there was the faint glow of firelight and a whiff of some pungent, fruity aroma—oranges, Aziraphale realized with astonishment.

“Crowley owns this place?” Aziraphale said weakly.

“He does,” the Ghost of Christmas Present nodded. “Let us see what the children are up to, shall we?”

Aziraphale and the spirit walked into the orphanage, ignoring such trivial things as walls and doors, and saw a chilled bottom floor that contained a dining hall and a sitting-room and several small offices. The children’s rooms, it seemed, where upstairs, thirty small beds housing thirty small bodies, and each had a bulging stocking laid across the foot of the bed. Aziraphale inspected the stockings and found them jammed with lumps of coal, and single small oranges laid on top.

“The coal can be used to trade or to keep warm,” the Ghost of Christmas Present explained. “Crowley employs the children now and then, whenever he needs messages delivered or the like, and tips them far beyond what they would make if they became chimney-sweeps or factory workers. The children adore him and the staff are scared of him.”

“Just as he would like it,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling the warmth in the air that had nothing to do with the steady supply of coal and firewood. “Spirit, why show me this?”

“Did you think those fruits of love I showed you were all your own?” the Ghost of Christmas Present smiled. “He might not show it, but you know it as well as I that the demon Crowley has a soft heart.”

“As good as gold and better,” Aziraphale said, and put his hand over his mouth. He’d never—not out loud, at any rate, oh, if Heaven found out—

“Peace, Principality, They cannot hear you,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said kindly. “This is a place of love and warmth and joy, things they can neither comprehend nor see clearly.”

Aziraphale bit both of his lips. Such blasphemy! And yet…

“I see you grow anxious,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said, and put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Shall I show you what the demon Crowley is up to today?”

Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to nod, but found himself before an austere chamber door anyway. The hall was noticeably chilly, especially compared to the comfort of the orphanage. The Ghost of Christmas Present gestured for Aziraphale to take the lead, and so he did, stepping cautiously into the space he had never once been invited to see, nor thought to invite himself into.

Crowley’s chambers were dark and cold, the furniture shrouded in black sheets, the fireplace unused. Aziraphale walked through the chambers with increasing confusion. This didn’t suit Crowley at all. For all his accusations that Aziraphale was a hedonist, Crowley himself was a creature of comfort and fashion. This was neither. Aziraphale’s wandering eventually took him to a bedchamber, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed, the curtains drawn. Soft snores erupted from behind the thick damask curtains, and Aziraphale stepped closer, cautious. He twitched aside a curtain when he was close enough, and looked down at the sprawled, slumbering form of his most wily adversary. Crowley sprawled at all times but when he slept he seemed determined to take up every inch of space available, limbs akimbo and hair fanned across his pillows, already longer than Aziraphale had seen it for some time. He had clearly been asleep for a long while, and didn’t seem close to waking at all. He also seemed very cold—as if at one point he had been warm, crawled above the covers, and then not had the sleepy sense to crawl back under them once the warmth went out, the silly thing.

“Has…has he been asleep, all this time?” Aziraphale whispered. “How could he then arrange for such things as lowered interest rates and oranges for children?”

“He arranged for it all beforehand, then fell asleep,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said, equally softly. “I think he means to sleep for quite some time, though by the time today ends, I will be gone and will know no more of him. One of my brothers may see him awaken, perhaps.”

Aziraphale startled, then turned to look at the spirit. The Ghost of Christmas Present did certainly seem older, his beard more silver than auburn and leaves wilted. When had that happened?

“I have life left in me yet,” the Ghost of Christmas Present smiled, and inhaled. The scene changed, back to the bookshop, and the Ghost of Christmas Present looked as robust as ever, smiling widely. “And so do you, Principality Aziraphale! I must be going, but remember that we do not make the fruits of love alone! They are best made and shared with others, all the year round!”

“I—” Aziraphale thought he should give some sort of farewell, but in a blink his back room was empty, except for the specter, who, now that it had full command of the room and no wreath and teacup to make it seem tame, loomed. Aziraphale coughed at the sudden bone-deep chill, so different from any earthly lack of warmth. “I…I suppose you are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?”

The specter nodded once.

“And…what have you to show me?” Aziraphale asked, fearful of the answer, craving it all the same. “Will…will Crowley sleep for a long time? Will the orphanage and properties he manages be alright without him?”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, with all the slow stiffness of a corpse, waved its arm and pointed. Aziraphale followed its finger, and saw that they were back in front of the orphanage, this time with a large “foreclosed” sign nailed to the front door. Aziraphale’s throat bobbed. It was one orphanage among many, one moment of time in eternity, but all the same, thinking of those thirty children who seemed to know the warmth of love and kindness despite their wretched situation, all thanks to Crowley himself, being turned out into the cold and vicious world without a friend to help them, seemed intolerable in this moment.

 _Such is the fate of those properties owned by the Crowley firm,_ the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come emanated. _Crowley cannot correct improper management if he is not awake to correct it._

“I see,” Aziraphale swallowed. “That’s…a shame.”

The specter nodded, then made another slow dramatic sweep and point. Aziraphale followed the direction of the pointing bony finger, and had to blink several times against the blinding whiteness he suddenly found himself in. This—this was Heaven, he realized, with a mingled dread and familiarity. The bare white floors and the endless stretch of pristine holiness felt as cold as any snowy day back on Earth, perhaps colder still for the lack of companionship. Though, as Aziraphale watched, the space seemed to suddenly fill with angels, wearing strange braided bits of branches around their heads. It took Aziraphale a moment to realize that he was seeing angels walking around with limbs of different trees haphazardly woven together and stuck on their heads, and spools of shiny things that were not tinsel but could probably have passed for it at a glance, and in one angel’s case, an entire skein of yarn hanging around their neck like a scarf gone so wrong as to have never truly begun.

“Yeah, some of the humans were getting obnoxious about this whole ‘Christmas’ thing, so we thought we’d indulge them,” the familiar voice of Gabriel lanced through Aziraphale’s ears, and he turned, his hands immediately going through their routine of straightening his waistcoat and lapels before he realized he was still wearing his dressing-gown and horror threatened to undo him entirely.

 _Relax,_ the specter exuded. _This is a shadow of what is to come. They cannot see you._

“Right,” Aziraphale said, not relaxing in the slightest.

There was Gabriel, with felt reindeer antlers perched on his perfect hair, holding an empty punch cup and talking to Michael, who looked as though she had literal stars dangling from her ears.

“We ran it by the Metatron and he said it was fine, so now we’re doing this, I guess,” Gabriel heaved a sigh. “Still! Good for morale! Some of those humans are getting so whiny ever since Armageddon, makes me think we need to redesign the whole Afterlife sector.”

“Armageddon,” Aziraphale said, and felt a curious tingle sweep through his whole body. “I see. Heaven…won, then?”

“We could relocate them to the basement,” Michael said. “Not like Hell is using it anymore.”

Oh…right. “Right,” Aziraphale said, though he felt entirely disconnected from his body as he said it.

“Hey, where’s—Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouted, turning and making a waving motion, and with sick horror Aziraphale recognized himself, wearing an approximation of his usual waistcoat and some sort of bow tied around his neck, all in shades of pure white that made him look rather washed-out, in his own private opinion. This Aziraphale of the future was wearing a small holly bunch pinned to his lapel and had no expression to speak of as Gabriel scooped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and hauled him into the discussion with Michael as though Aziraphale was a doll with no power of movement whatsoever.

“Great work on all this, Aziraphale, the humans seem to be enjoying it,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale of the future gave a bland smile. “Hey, once this is all over, you’re in charge of telling the Afterlife division they’re moving, alright? I’ll have the paperwork on your desk at the appropriate moment. Don’t screw it up!” Gabriel laughed and clapped Aziraphale on the back, and Aziraphale of the present watched in queasy discomfort as Aziraphale of the future gave a single nod and walked away with stiff, mechanical steps. Aziraphale followed himself all the way through the party, past angels wearing live partridges in pear trees and antique lightbulbs tied together with twine, past a cluster of cubicles, and watched himself as he sat in a cubicle he barely remembered as his own. In the cubicle were the usual accoutrement to completing his Heavenly tasks, as well as a single angel-winged mug, one pearlescent oyster shell, and a battered valise Aziraphale didn’t recognize but thought had brick dust and ash caked across it. Aziraphale of the future ran his fingertips over each object, then buried his face in his hands. Aziraphale of the present expected his future self to weep, perhaps, or to crumple, but he didn’t. Aziraphale of the future simply held the position, and when his hands lowered, his eyes were empty and blank. The nausea in Aziraphale of the present’s stomach heaved, almost up to his throat.

“If…Armageddon happened,” Aziraphale said slowly, “and Heaven won…”

He couldn’t complete the thought. Could not bring it to its natural conclusion, could not make the logical leap, could not think the obvious. Aziraphale of the future turned back to his desk, to the stack of paperwork that had just materialized, and began to look through it. Aziraphale of the present turned away, only to hear, in his own brittle, cracked voice, “Merry Christmas, Crowley,” and the patter of a single tear on a sheet of paper.

“Enough of this,” Aziraphale of the present croaked, and sought out the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, still standing nearby. “Enough. Enough.”

 _If these shadows remain unchanged,_ the specter emanated as the scenery around them began to swirl, _this fate awaits you, Aziraphale, whether Armageddon ever comes or not._

“Enough!” Aziraphale cried, and was very startled when the cry woke him up. He flailed in his confusion and managed to deposit himself from his comfortable chair onto the floor, narrowly missing his dropped glass of wine but not the wine puddle at the foot of the chair. Aziraphale untangled himself from his dressing-gown and stood, breathing hard, looking wildly around to see where the spirits had gone, or for signs that they had ever been there in the first place. Nothing at all here but his battered copy of _A Christmas Carol_ , laying innocently by his chair, and the empty glass of wine, and the soft glow of a snowy morning in London.

Aziraphale breathed, willing his heart to stop pounding so hard. Had that been real? A dream? Certainly it must have been a dream, brought on by his own choice of reading material, but it had felt so real. Aziraphale rarely slept and had certainly never dreamed anything like that before. Was that what normal dreams were like?

Regardless, Aziraphale divested himself of his wet dressing-gown and freshened himself up. He had some social calls to make, this fine Christmas Day.

The AJ Crowley firm found itself very surprised, after Christmas Day, at the appearance of a new board member who was adamant about keeping up with Mr. Crowley’s outlined vision for how his properties were to be run. The orphanages (for there were many) were not foreclosed on for quite some time, and the properties mortgaged out fairly and with perhaps more good grace than sense, until the firm was dissolved some decades later.

Crowley himself awoke with disheveled hair, a cotton mouth, and a supernaturally warm chamber he didn’t remember miracling himself but must have done, and once properly awake, he threw open a window to shout down to a nearby urchin about the date. If the answer surprised him, it was his own business.

As for Aziraphale, he only had to wait, and be affable when it was time for Crowley to come sauntering back into the waking world. In time the horror of his dream was dimmed, but never quite forgotten, even when Armageddon’s final approach seemed inevitable.

Much later, in fact, Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting together by a fireplace in a cottage they both owned, holding cups of hot cider and giggling together about nothing at all as a miraculous snow fell outside. A nice holiday gesture, Crowley sniffed dismissively when accused of its existence, and pretended not to preen under Aziraphale’s tender smile.

“Don’t try to wriggle out of it now, you wily serpent, I know all about those orphanages in the nineteenth century,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley choked on his cider. Aziraphale patted him on the back and took his mug as Crowley worked to get himself under control.

“How the blazing bloody devil do you know about that?” Crowley coughed.

“Oh, did I never tell you? I had the most unusual dream,” Aziraphale said, and when Crowley gestured for it, handed back Crowley’s mug and picked his own back up. “Really, dearest, you needn’t make such a fuss.”

“M’not the fussy one,” Crowley grumbled. “Fine. Dream. Hang on, you don’t—since when do you sleep?”

“Well, never,” Aziraphale admitted, “but the alternative is far more perplexing. So. I choose to think it was an unusually accurate and informative dream.”

“Right. That’s not confusing or anything,” Crowley said, and leaned his head against his arm. His hair was growing out again, his eyes twinkling in the fire’s glow, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled fit to burst in his chest. “Tell me about it?”

“You’ll think me very silly,” Aziraphale said, and tried not to choke himself when Crowley’s hand reached out and twined with his own. It had been happening for a while but still was so new, so fragile—Aziraphale wanted to protect it with all he had in him.

“I already think you’re silly,” Crowley informed him, with a rakish grin that turned gentle as soon as Aziraphale giggled. “You’re silly and I’m nice. We’re perfectly matched. Now tell me about this blessed dream of yours.”

Aziraphale smiled, and put aside his cider mug, and he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Quillyfied on tumblr!


End file.
